


every cell in my body, brace

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Following
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, Puppy Play, Spoilers for S1, Stockholm Syndrome, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She swallowed and felt faint. </p><p>Those eyes. </p><p>Those baby blue eyes, so piercing and striking that the memory of Mike Weston came to the forefront of her mind and without thinking, his name slipped from her lips in a whisper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tim “Roderick” Nelson | March 11, 2013

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I own nothing. I'm just a twisted individual, who enjoys torturing characters and subjecting them to horrible things. This fic follows the season 1 episode "Welcome Home", but explores a different twist.

**Tim “Roderick” Nelson | March 11, 2013**

Leaning against one of the concrete supports, Roderick eyed the ghastly scene before him impassively. His eyes briefly flickered to Louise, who viewed the second round between Charlie and Michael Emerson Weston from the shadows. The crooked smile on her lips didn’t surprise him in the least, as Louise had always appreciated the fragility of human life. He continued to stare at her, until the asymmetric sound of two steel pipes echoing together redirected Roderick’s attention to the collapsed FBI agent before his feet.  

 

Roderick frowned at Michael’s groan. What possessed the blonde to hold such a _fierce_ amount of loyalty toward both Claire Matthews and Ryan Hardy, considering their _love affair_ had practically forced the second youngest FBI agent into his current predicament? He almost felt for the boy, who had misplaced _all_ of his faith into a corrupt justice system. _I was like him once_ , Roderick thought still frowning, _until I found a better path; until I learned to stop following the Ryan Hardy’s and Claire Matthews’s of the world._

 

            “Come on,” Roderick said approaching Michael, before he bent down to pat the man’s shoulder. “Ring a-ding ding.” He eyed Michael’s bloodstained lips part slightly, before he took a moment to appreciate the bleeding wound above Michael’s eyebrow, which was a stark contrast to his rapidly paling skin and eccentric blue eyes. “Come on. It’s not over till you stop breathing.” He surveyed Michael’s small head movement with a small smile, before he moved to grab at the strands of soft hair to force the injured agent’s head up from the bloodstained ground. Roderick listened to Michael’s soft grunt and labored breathing, tilting his head to admire Mike’s strength. “You’re still breathing.”

 

He’d _never_ admit it aloud, but Michael’s determination to keep secrets impressed him. Few men could take such a beating from Charles “Charlie” Mead, still be conscious and keep tightlipped—even after having several bones crushed from the steel pipe, which Charlie had slammed against the boy’s side. It was truly a shame that Michael had chosen the FBI and Ryan Hardy as his allies, as Roderick knew the boy (and his talents for secret keeping) would ultimately end up going to waste. Without another word, he gently placed the agent’s head back down on the ground. “You’ve got one last chance. Where’s Claire?”

 

Roderick watched Michael’s head move again, before the boy’s bloody lips (and teeth) parted. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t…I don’t know.” Though he was no a remorseful or easily shaken man, Roderick still had to force his eyes away from the intensity of Michael’s stare. He had a job to do and he wasn’t about to renege on his obligations to Joe Carroll, regardless of _how_ much he could identify with the bleeding boy before him. Michael’s continued denial of Claire’s secret location was becoming a rather wearisome issue, however.

 

They had specifically targeted the boy for his knowledge about the FBI’s safe houses, yet he continued (under the duress of pain) to deny his knowledge and Roderick had _sworn_ to Joe that the boy would know where Claire was being hidden. From what he knew of the FBI though, most of their training courses dealt with learning how to interrogate suspects, learning crisis management and most importantly, learning how to cope with torture.

 

Michael’s little act of ignorance wasn’t fooling him and in turn, this situation had _several_ ways of panning out.

 

The first scenario involved a ridiculous amount of over-the-top heroics from Ryan Hardy. The FBI Consultant would find them all—start firing his gun and Michael would _ultimately_ slip between their fingers, as Hardy’s rescue plan would end in multiple causalities. If the boy continued to live, the FBI would (eventually) launch investigations on the closeted identity of Roderick; all because Michael Weston had seen his face. Roderick had spent _years_ perfecting his front as Havenport Sherriff Tim Nelson, just to keep the town’s residents ignorant toward the behaviors occurring in their own backyards. Having been indebted to Joe for a little over ten years now, he couldn’t allow a backwaters boy to ruin all of their best laid plans as it would be unacceptable.

 

The second scenario involved Michael’s death and them, returning to Joe empty-handed. While the boy’s death would help them all avoid a shootout and prevent an overwhelming amount of causalities by the FBI, Joe’s wrath was not something he desired. Returning empty-handed would be a second strike against Charlie’s honor, a first against Roderick’s ability to lead and Joe would destroy them both.

 

Either way, Roderick refused to condemn anyone (aside from Ryan Hardy, Debra Parker and the FBI) to a livid Joe Carroll. Charlie might have allowed Claire Matthews to escape the first time, but it wasn’t their fault that Michael Emerson Weston needed a little extra treatment to set him straight.

 

This, to Roderick, left him with one final scenario in obtaining information from Mike. The group of followers, who surrounded him, trusted him explicitly and a small deviation from their original plan of torturing Mike for the information would only bring questions from Louise. Louise would never voice them aloud, until they were alone, as she respected his decisions enough to not question until later.

 

After a moment of silence, Roderick replied. “I believe you.” He watched Mike’s eyes shutter in relief, before he brushed his finger across Mike’s nose.  Roderick’s small touch wasn’t demeaning, but instead, he had wanted to provide a little comfort to a man, who had somehow become the linchpin to a new plan. He didn’t expect Mike to understand his intentions just yet, although Roderick knew that he eventually would.

 

Roderick didn’t bother glancing back down at Mike, as he stood and turned to glance at Louise. In the shadows, his right-hand patiently waited with two blades for round three of their previous game. “Change of plans, men. Our pitiful idea of a game isn’t _good enough_ for Mike Weston.” Louise’s expression darkened, slightly, yet she remained silent. “Louise, forgo the knives for the moment. Hand Charlie your needle, instead.” Louise stared at him for a second, before she slowly nodded and dropped her blades to the ground. The clattering sound of metal combined with Mike’s whimpering caused Roderick to smirk, as he observed Louise approach Charlie to hand him one of her hypodermic needles. Charlie said nothing, accepting the needle with a small nod before Louise stepped over to his side with a grimace.

 

            “Oh, don’t pout,” Roderick teased, quietly, “I’ll buy you several new needles, all filled with any toxin of your choice.” Louise hummed in response, crossing her arms against her chest. “There’s my good girl.” He ignored Louise’s mild glower, only to turn to glance at Charlie. “Louise, guide Charlie through injecting our friend here.” Louise said nothing again, as she approached Charlie one last time and quietly guided his movements toward introducing the chemical into Mike’s bloodstream through his neck as her hands held down his slender wrists. “Turn him on his side and back away; stash the needle away for disposal.” Charlie gently maneuvered Mike to rest on his side, before he and Louise stepped backwards.

 

Quietly, Roderick studied Mike’s prone form with a leer. Ryan had probably already figured out _who_ had taken his little pal and was already on his way (without the cavalry) to rescue Mike, but Roderick _knew_ Ryan would be too late. With Mike’s health bordering on unstable, Roderick hoped that Louise’s chemical cocktail would affect him earlier than usual as he only had one shot with this scenario.

 

When Mike’s body made no movements, Roderick cursed softly and glanced toward his group of seven. “Leave him and get out of here. Louise and I will join you back at the home within the next five hours or so.” Charlie motioned for the five to follow him, leaving Louise, Roderick and Mike behind.

 

Taking advantage of the continued stillness, Louise turned to glance at him. “It’s not meant to be quick. The toxin has anywhere between a twenty minute and four-hour window to start clouting him.” Roderick glanced back down at Mike, frowning. “Out of respect, I waited to voice my objections toward whatever you’re planning. However, Joe will not be happy if…”

 

            “Joe,” Roderick interrupted, coolly, “will be happy if he finds his ex-wife. He has entrusted us to extract information from Mike Weston and I refuse to fail him, Louise.” Roderick glanced at her briefly. “Joe has never cared for _how_ we go about this; however, we both knew our original game was not going to work.” He paused to stare down at Mike, choosing his next words carefully. “We’ve studied and followed all of the main players here for _months_. Ryan Hardy, Debra Parker _and_ Michael Weston. All three of them, morally sound and righteous; did you truly believe that our usual methods of extracting information from any of them would have worked?” Roderick watched Louise open her mouth, before she closed it again. “Exactly. I’m choosing to implore a more _questionable_ method to our docket.” His expression darkened briefly. “I will only say this once, Louise.” Her eyes met his. “You are either with me or you are against me.

            “And those who are against me,” he stepped over Mike’s unconscious body to grasp at Charlie’s abandoned steel pipe, which nearly froze his fingers from the cool ground, “don’t walk away from me with all of their mental facilities in the correct places.”

 

Louise’s gaze fell to the floor, nodding. “I’m…I’m with you, Roderick.” He smirked slightly, nodding in appreciation. He stepped closer to her, placing the steel pipe against her pale cheekbone.

 

            “Would you do anything for me, Louise?” He stroked her skin with the steel pipe, eyes watching her shiver.

 

Again, Louise nodded. Roderick watched her nervously swallow, her fear coming off her in waves. “Yes, Roderick. I would do anything for you.”

 

            “Good,” Roderick said, tossing the steel pipe behind him. Louise flinched. The pipe clanged against the concrete floor and when all was silent once more, Roderick glanced at Louise’s flushed face. “Because, right now, I request that you stab Michael Emerson Weston.” A sheen of confusion settled upon Louise’s expression and Roderick grimaced. “If you stab him anywhere vital and he _dies_ , I will leave you for Ryan Hardy.” Roderick grabbed Louise by the chin and pulled her close, “I’ve heard Ryan enjoys slapping women around, who refuse to tell him what he wishes to know.”

 

She nodded once more, before he shoved her away. Louise turned on her heels and retreated into the shadows, only to return to Mike’s unconscious form with one of her steel knives. Roderick remained silent. He had no desire to hurry Louise, as watching her knife technique was almost as good as fucking her.

 

Roderick edged forward, his mouth dry in desire, while Louise traced Mike’s jawline with her steel blade. Mike remained unconscious, unaware of how swiftly Louise slid the knife down his stubble and collarbone without nicking an inch of skin. Roderick could hear Louise’s abnormally loud breathing, deep and shuddering, before she held the collar on Mike’s shirt in her hand and slit through the dark material with ease.

 

Shamelessly, Roderick glimpsed Mike’s hair-roughed and muscled skin and his mouth became moist. Louise’s circular ministrations against Mike’s chest, the tip of her blade pressed against his skin as she slowly inched the tip closer to one of his hair-encircled male nipples. Roderick rocked his hips, frantically, as he attempted to alleviate the tightness growing just below his waistband at the hypnotic view.

 

Suddenly, Louise stopped in her movements and he grunted, fingering the waistband to his jeans. _You bitch. You fucking bitch. I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight, you filthy whore._

 

Louise said nothing to him, continuing her measured descent down Mike’s chest with the tip of her steel blade. He heard her breath hitch and his fingers itched below his elastic waistband, unthinkingly caressing his own erection at Louise’s steel foreplay. He closed his eyes and rolled his head backwards, enjoying the sensations of his own heated flesh within his fingers and the sound of Louise’s erotic breathing.

 

Opening his eyes, he found release just as Louise thrust her blade into Mike’s abdomen. Louise’s hands came away from the knife, stained red as her fingers dipped into the wound and unable to control himself, he tore across the room to capture Louise’s lips in his own. Louise responded, hungrily and he shoved her against one of the concrete supports so roughly that he watched her wince in response.

 

            “We need to leave,” Roderick ordered, throatily before he forced his eyes away from Louise’s trembling and swollen lips to glance back at the rapidly hemorrhaging laceration clear above Mike’s navel. “Hardy will be along shortly and we have a few more stops, before we return back to Havenport.”

 

            “We’re leaving him?”

 

Roderick nodded. “For now, yes.” He stepped backwards and turned, motioning for Louise to follow him out.


	2. Ryan Hardy | March 11, 2013

**Ryan Hardy | March 11, 2013**

Slamming the car door behind him, Ryan glanced about the illuminated shipyard carport before he threw a glance at Debra over his shoulder. His _hunch_ as Agent Nick Donovan had called it had been correct, as the vehicle belonging to Charles Mead and Louise Sinclair sat before the creepy-ass building. If the situation had been less dire, Ryan _might_ have commented on the lack of originality in location but they didn’t quite have the time. Mike had already been missing for a few hours and Joe’s followers—while not overly bright or creative—could still do a massive amount of damage.

 

He glanced at the vehicle with Debra behind him. “That’s definitely the car. They gotta be inside.” Ryan started forward, glancing at the decrepit building. He vaguely heard Debra say she’d check around the outside, which somewhat surprised him; he had half-expected her to demand that they wait for backup, and like him, she had probably sensed how every second counted in saving Mike’s life. On the way from the hotel to the shipyard, Ryan had wondered _why Mike?_ With Claire in protection and her son with Joe, Joe really had nothing to gain by having his followers torture Mike. If Ryan had no idea where they were hiding Claire, why in the hell would Mike know?

 

Ryan moved to unsheathe his gun, eyeing the somber and darkened surroundings for any reason to shoot. He wasn’t afraid of staining his hands with even more blood, especially of those who fully deserved it. The silence inside was deafening and although he heard his own footsteps echoing, he realized he _should_ have been able to hear something—Mike’s tortured cries, the voice of Joe’s followers, etc… Something obviously didn’t feel right and while the vehicle had been outside and tracked to _this_ specific shipyard, it wouldn’t have surprised Ryan if an ambush were waiting for both he and Debra. He almost wanted to call Debra and warn her about the possibility of a second abduction or an ambush, but Ryan felt 98% positive that Mike’s body (dead or alive) was still somewhere within the building.

 

He just had no idea what surrounded Mike’s body.

 

Debra would be appalled at his half-brained idea, but right now, he had the upper hand and if he kept it — he could fire off at least three bullets to wound or kill, some of Joe’s followers before they fired back. He knew the FBI wanted to maintain a limited amount of casualties, something he thought was almost impossible, mainly because they had no other choice _but_ a shootout if they wanted to get Mike out alive and away from Joe Carroll’s followers.

 

The further he moved into the concrete building, the more he prepared himself for the worst. He had his finger on the trigger and his eyes roamed the concrete walls, taking in every inch of gang graffiti spray-painted in angry reds and blacks.

 

            “Mike?” Ryan lowly called out, his voice resounding in the colorless space. He paused for Mike’s response, but he heard nothing. He tried calling out again and still, Mike said nothing. Ryan wondered if Mike had heard him, and if he hadn’t, Ryan wondered if the younger agent was unconscious or if something was keeping him from replying.

 

Joe Carroll had always believed in the grand sport of foreplay and even with the few followers they had encountered so far, Joe had apparently passed the importance of _good foreplay_ onto them also. He half expected a sign pointing him to Mike’s broken body or telling how he had failed to save Mike, but with every step he took, he realized none of this screamed _Joe Carroll_. It screamed a new player, Joe’s right hand man perhaps.

 

Ryan drew in a shuttering breath, before he took another glance around the concrete room. He saw nothing and in frustration, he ran his hand through his hair. He should have killed Joe Carroll years ago, back after the bastard had run the blade near his heart. If he had, none of them would be playing this ridiculous game of cat-and-mouse. Claire and Joey would be safe and Sarah would still be alive, able to move past this dark chapter of her life. In the silence, he finally heard the steady vibration of his cellphone and his mouth went dry.

 

This was it.   


            “Hello?”  

 

            “Hardy,” it was Debra, not Joe and she sounded distressed. Had she found something? “I’m…I’m at the northwest corner…” He didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence, as he took off running without a moment of hesitation. Ryan knew his health was a mess, considering the amount of alcoholic beverages he kept consuming and the joys of his pacemaker that kept his heart going. He ignored the tightness in his lungs and the white spots gaining in his vision; he’d pay for his carelessness later on, but he hoped his adrenaline would kick in and keep him on his feet long enough.

 

            “Parker?” Ryan panted, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead as he came to rest behind her. The dark-haired FBI agent didn’t turn immediately and he took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. “Debra?” He tried again.

 

            “Call…call 911,” he heard Debra’s quiet voice order. Ryan moved to pull out his cellphone again, his free hand lingering above her shoulder. Beyond her form, all he could see was the color _red_.  “Tell them…tell them not to run any red lights.”


	3. Debra Parker | April 17, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize about my lack of updating, so please, enjoy a lengthy (and somewhat violent) chapter! :)

**Debra Parker | April 17, 2015**

Pinching the bridge of her nose, FBI Special Agent in Charge Debra Parker waited final confirmation that all of her people were ready and in position as Rookie Agent Andrew Phillips sat next to her in their navy cruiser rental. Debra tried her best to ignore his calculated expression and narrowed eyes by redirecting attention to her small hand-held radio.

 

            “Unit A, do I have final confirmation?” Debra asked softly, leaning forward to glimpse the gated Havenport Manor through her windshield. Phillips had his passenger-side window cracked slightly and from the whistling of wind, she hoped another rainstorm wouldn’t derail their visibility. While the weather forecasts hadn’t predicted any storms, Maryland’s weather was quite unpredictable in the middle of April.

           

            “Yes, boss.” Jared Sampson’s voice replied gravely, after a moment of radio silence. “Units B and C are in position, currently awaiting your orders.” She nodded, although he couldn’t see her movements. “Personally, we’re all ready to take out this sick son-of-a-bitch.”

 

            “Good.” Debra ended her life of communication briefly, before she fingered the cracked band of silver just beneath her collar. After two lengthy years of countless goose chases, back-to-back funerals and a string of serial killers along the Eastern Seaboard, Debra wished that she and Ryan Hardy were apprehending Joe Carroll together. However, she fully understood his continued reluctance in joining _another_ possible fishing expedition for a megalomaniac and his acolytes.

 

It probably also didn’t help that Ryan and she were at two different places in their lives. Debra hadn’t stopped her crave to nail the sons-of-bitches, who had actively participated in the murders of countless FBI Agents and civilians. Ryan, on the opposite had, had strived to leave the insanity of Joe Carroll—and his mounting guilt—behind him by straying to New York.

 

Of course, she had never been able to blame him for that decision. Ryan had deserved the chance to be happy, _without_ the possibility that Joe Carroll (or his friends) could kill anyone close to him again as the serial killer had done to FBI Agent Michael Weston, Claire and Joey Matthews and a seemingly endless amount of their FBI colleagues.

 

            “Are we going in or not?” Phillip’s impatient voice interposed on her thoughts, forcing her to shoot him a mild glare in irritation. Debra watched him shift anxiously, before she rolled her eyes. All rookies were the same; so desperate for action, regardless of how many lives were on the line. “He may not stay for too much longer…”

 

She halted the brunette rookie with her hand. “We either do this right or Carroll walks. So trust me when I say; _if_ he walks free, I’ll make your life a living hell.” Phillips’ Adam’s apple bobbed nervously, nearly causing Debra to leer in aversion. Had she not been clear enough with him about the _hours_ of research that they had organized to pinpoint Joe Carroll’s hideout? From his slackened posture and glossy stare, she assumed not and she ground her teeth. Without hesitation, she opened her car door and stepped out into the moist April air where she relaxed at the light breeze against her flushed cheeks. Debra heard Phillips echo her actions, before she moved the radio to her lips again.

 

            “Unit C, go ahead and disable the security system now.” Anxiously, Debra brought the hand-held radio from her lips and waited for the confirmation of success. Agent Harvey Daniel’s voice addressed her, after a few moments of radio silence.

           

            “Security is down, the gate is open. Prepare to engage.”

           

Debra baited her breath, steeling her emotions of anxiety and turmoil at the thought of _finally_ putting an end to Joe Carroll’s reign of terror. “Go!” Instead of waiting for second confirmation, Debra sprinted forward. She cursed her idiocy at her choice of six-inch heels as she ran through the tall grasses and dying weeds. Although her unit had been narrowing in on Joe Carroll for weeks, she hadn’t realized how the capture of Timothy Sanders—one of Joe’s lower acolytes—would have escalated their timetables by almost a month when she had chosen her outfit that morning. If she had known the possibility of being yanked off desk duty, she would have ditched the damn heels for practical gym shoes that morning.

 

She heard Phillips trailing behind her, his audible curses nearly matching her own in furor, as they advanced on the red brick building— _the_ Havenport Manor. The sight of the towering Manor forced Debra to stop and clench her fists together; it also forced her to draw short, steady breaths in-and-out. She felt Phillips stare. How could she even _begin_ to underplay the amount of incompetence? It was semi-understandable for a _group_ of killers to go unnoticed and without capture for several months (or years, even), but it was completely unacceptable for a _house_ of killers to go undetected for nearly three years especially when half of the FBI had their focus on Havenport, Maryland. The longer she stared at the brick building with its open-windows and towering trees, the more she wondered _why_ the FBI hadn’t seen it fit to scour the outskirts of Havenport after Claire Matthews’ deceased body had been found, hanging from a tree limb in the center of town. A masterful homage to Poe’s short story, _The Black Cat_.

 

Havenport’s Sheriff Tim Nelson had guffawed at the idea of Carroll being in _his_ backyard. According to him, there were hundreds of better cities to start a murder spree in than Havenport. While the FBI and local law enforcement individuals might have believed him, she hadn’t. The blatant dismissal of Havenport as hub for a cult of serial killers, especially after Claire’s murder, had only made her tighten her investigation on him in the hopes of a new lead.

 

            “How in the _hell_ did anyone miss this?” Phillips asked, disbelief coloring his voice. Debra merely shook her head and pulled her gun from its holster, eyeing the looming manor before them with a glower. “This isn’t a small house, Parker. This is a _giant_ manor, surrounded by acres and acres of land. Land, which,” he paused to take a deep breath, “should have been documented and recorded in the town’s charter.” Debra remained silent. She had no satisfying answer to his question yet, but she hoped that someone would shed light on _how_ the cult leader had managed to keep an entire piece of land hidden.

 

            “Unit A,” she muttered into her hand-held radio. “Go.”  Without a second glance toward Phillips, she sprinted off in the direction of the Havenport Manor. Debra heard Sampson’s loud cry of _FBI_ before she observed the small unit knock in the front door. She readied her weapon, prepared for a firefight; but nothing came, aside from Sampson’s discreet glance and nod in her direction.

 

            “All clear, Boss.” Sampson’s voice came across the radio.

 

            “I was expecting something…more,” Phillips muttered from her left, steading his firearm. “He’s a megalomaniac. He should be showing _off_ , not staying put.” Debra said nothing, but she motioned for him to follow her. Her stomach clenched in apprehension as she crossed the threshold into the Manor.

 

            “Be on guard.”

 

Debra briefly considered radioing her units again, but she trusted them all to be on point. While the Havenport Manor foyer was quiet and still now, she doubted the brick hideaway would stay that way for too long.

 

            “We should request backup.”

 

“No.” She didn’t even spare a glance at Phillips. “The last time, Joe Carroll slipped away _because_ of our backup. The fewer people involved means less of a chance that Carroll will escape again.” Phillips said nothing. “Keep your gun out.” She ignored his small scoff with an eye roll, before she continued forward and eyed each of the Manor’s closet doors in trepidation. Where _were_ Carroll’s followers? The shout of _FBI_ should have had them scrambling for weapons (or cover), but instead, the Manor continued to remain eerily quiet. It didn’t make any sense to Debra. The Manor’s foyer eventually dissipated into several smaller doorways, to which she and Phillips continued into the warmly decorated kitchen in trepidation.

 

Wood paneling and plenty of sunlight, Debra noted with a glance at the dancing white-lace curtains in the rear of the room. Six wide paneled windows were opened and anxiously, Debra wondered how many of Carroll’s followers had escaped out of them as a last minute resort? She moved the hand-held radio to her lips again.

 

            “Unit C, the East grounds have six possible escape routes in the form of open windows. Suspects are assumed to be armed and dangerous.” The hand-held radio remained silent and Debra blinked, inhaling sharply. She motioned for Phillips to follow behind her, their feet clanking against the wood paneling as they both moved from the kitchen into the adjacent dining room.

 

In turn, she nearly dropped her gun at the sight of mangled corpses gathered around the dining room table; nine individuals seemed as if they had been about to enjoy a twisted dinner party, especially with the way their wrists had been bound to their dining room chairs. The women (or she assumed they were women, anyway) wore white dresses and the quasi-men wore suits, both articles of clothing discolored with rich burgundy. Debra stared at each of them. Had any of them agreed to die in the name of Joe Carroll? Or had they all been victims of circumstance? Debra’s lips twisted at the disconcerting image of the individuals before her, who were all without identity thanks to a clean shot. It would take forensics _weeks_ to gather the identities from the mess of brain matter, bone and blood from the wall behind them. It would then take _months_ to notify the family members and friends, a sordid affair indeed and something she _never_ wanted to do again.

 

Blinking, Debra tried to focus on the _other_ eight individuals at the table. All of the eight—four men and four women, sitting side by side—were dressed in white-drenched-red and tarnished with the vibrancy of death via their bluish lips and tattered throats. Relaxed expressions, _at peace_ , and unwillingly, Debra stepped closer and turned each of their faces over in her mind. Cracked front tooth and overbite—Alexander Spencer. Entwined hands and a swollen belly—Beth Wagner-Rigsby and Nathan Rigsby. She grimaced. An underlying element to Carroll’s religion and Poe’s literature remained the ideal that _death_ was a _gift_ and those most loyal to Carroll would willingly give it. No questions asked.

 

Debra heard Phillips gag and she turned to glance at him, concern in her expression. Regardless of how much death they’ve seen, nothing could have prepared anyone for a sight like that. She opened her mouth to offer a diminutive word of comfort, but nothing came out.

 

            “Boss,” Sampson’s gravelly voice filled the tense silence and Debra inhaled again, grateful for the momentary distraction. “Discovered ten suspects in one of the upstairs bedroom, all deceased.” Debra shuddered involuntarily. If the individuals before her had been killed with a knife or a gun, what had the followers killed themselves with upstairs? “How does the ground floor seem?”

 

Phillips answered for her, his voice wavering. “All dead; Carroll hasn’t been spotted yet.” Debra nodded her thanks toward Phillips, who said nothing in response. She watched him touch the base of his neck, a grimace on his lips. “…he’s acting as if this is all normal. _It’s not_. This is…it’s…”

 

Debra didn’t move to touch him, but she ultimately understood. She understood every time Joe Carroll had been involved over the years. “For now, he is.” Later, Debra knew Sampson would go home to his wife and drink. He’d drink for each of the lives lost and he’d mourn each of them, as he did every single time they had worked together. “We each have our ways of coping, Andrew.” His eyes found hers briefly. “Units B and C,” Debra’s tone hardened. “Is everything alright?” 

 

Laurel Damien’s voice, calm and steady, answered immediately. “Yeah, Boss. No movement, voices or anything.” Debra heaved a sigh of relief and glanced away from Phillips, her stomach knotting at the lack of an immediate reply from Unit C.  Harvey was typically punctual and radio silence usually meant nothing good.

 

            “Parker,” Harvey’s serious tone finally hit the radio. “Everything’s fine here.” She exhaled in relief. _Thank god._ “One of the rookies stumbled upon a mass grave on the East side of the Manor. Hard to tell how many bodies or how long it’s been here though.” Debra’s frown deepened. “We also lost connection for about ten minutes.”

 

            “Did you find anyone alive?”

 

            “No,” Harvey replied. “However, we’ve got an empty dog kennel. It looks used, Parker.”

           

Debra heard a loud commotion behind her and she turned, aiming her gun to disarm, only to find Phillips cursing. “He’s a sick fuck! Murdering cops and torturing animals? He doesn’t deserve a _fair_ trial; he deserves to have his fucking head blown off.” Debra stared at him briefly, waiting for him to finish his tirade. “Yeah, I know. We’re supposed to remain _impartial_ , but between you and me, I wouldn’t mind anyone blowing his fucking brains out with an AK-47.”

 

She knew his dilemma all too well unfortunately, as the same dilemma kept her awake at night.

 

If her finger just happened to slip and Joe Carroll died at her hands, would she be a monster also? Her job continually asked her to be impartial, but Carroll had _killed_ her friend; and she couldn’t be _impartial_ when it came to the idea of deciding Joe Carroll’s fate. She wanted the bastard to die also, but she couldn’t tell Phillips that. She couldn’t tell him how she dreamt of slitting the man’s throat or garroting him.

 

She also couldn’t tell him how often she had woken up after _those_ dreams, grinning. Or how much she wished it hadn’t been a dream.

 

No. Phillips needed to remain impartial, especially if he had any chances of getting out of the Virginia branch.

 

            “We’re FBI agents, Phillips,” Debra chided, softly. “We are not the judge, jury or execution. We _will_ bring Carroll into custody and we _will_ keep from death, until the jury decides his fate again. If you don’t agree with his decision, why in the hell did you join the FBI in the first place?” She didn’t wait for his response as she returned her attention to her hand-held radio. “All units; be on the lookout of an animal. We’re almost done with the ground floor.”

           

Debra stepped past the dining room carnage, needing to be past the smell of death and decay, only to find a good-sized recreation room before her. Televisions lined the north wall, while books, movies and games lined the walls nearest to her. It truly disgusted her to think that Carroll’s acolytes would return from killing, only to unwind with a good game of _Cards Against Humanity_ while people were left mourning.

 

            “Psychos treat their people way better than the FBI does, apparently,” Phillips commented and she turned to find him behind her. He gave her a small nod and she smirked. “Carroll bought his people pool tables, dartboards and an endless collection of movies? It seems Carroll might have actually cared.”

 

She continued to stare at him, her fingers involuntarily brushing over the spine of _Gone Girl_ by Gillian Flynn. The selection of literature certainly didn’t surprise her. “Megalomaniac and psychopath tendencies aside, Carroll has a need to keep his acolytes happy and well-motivated.” She knew Carroll thoroughly enjoyed brainwashing his acolytes also, but some of his “friends”—Emma Hill, Roderick, Jacob Wells, and Paul Torres—had joined willingly. Debra had studied various cults for years and felt, however that Joe Carroll’s cult had begun to devolve into something leveling with Jim Jones’ Jonestown. “If he doesn’t keep them happy, he knows he’ll lose them. He can’t risk that, as a cult leader ultimately tries to eliminate all threats to _his_ happy ending.” She watched his mouth open and close, before she blinked in confusion. Debra knew what he wanted to ask, but she attempted to ignore him. She had no desire to answer questions about her previous FBI partners. She also had absolutely no desire to discuss her near death experiences because of Carroll either. “We need to finish our ground floor sweep. We haven’t found Carroll yet.”

 

            “Think he’s alive?”

 

Part of her hoped not, but the lack of a body (so far) proved to tell an opposite tale. “I’m not going to speculate. Without Carroll’s body, we have nothing.” She said nothing else to him, as she left the recreational room behind and moved into another long hallway. Debra could see two doors and instead of opening the larger door first, she opened the smallest door and eyed the line of computer monitors in distaste. “The room’s empty…”

 

She stepped back and Phillips stepped forward, whistling slightly.

 

            “So, _that’s_ how they did?” Phillips muttered in awe, which caused her to side-eye him. He glanced back at her, frowning. “I know we had moles in the FBI, Parker, but I…he was using CIA and Military-grade equipment to reroute our servers.” Debra sighed. “Even without his moles, he could have gathered intel from various places with this slew of equipment.” Phillips continued to glance around the room, something akin to amazement expressed on his face. “We need tech to sweep this room. It might give us further information on Carroll’s followers.” Debra nodded. Of course, she’d call them in. She’d call in the whole nine yards, after they had Carroll in custody.

 

With everything having been so quiet so far, Debra couldn’t help her intensifying anxiety. A quiet Carroll was an entirely different beast to face. From Phillips’ stance, she wondered if he felt the same way she did. He hadn’t been studying Carroll as long yet, but the scene in the dining room probably had served as a warning to Carroll’s twistedness. Before she could ask what he was thinking, Sampson’s voice cut through the radio silence again. “Boss, have you or Phillips stumbled upon a dog yet?”

 

            “Not yet.”

 

Phillips spoke into his radio, grimacing. “Carroll’s kitchen held two modified dog bowls.”

 

            “We’re currently occupying one of the Master bedrooms, where we’ve found a cage. It’s too big for a small animal, which leaves the possibility of large animal. Carnivore, more than likely. Be on the lookout.” She heard Phillips inhale sharply.

 

            “I’m not shooting a damned dog, Debra!” Phillips snapped and she continued to eye him. “It’s not the animal’s fault for Carroll’s intentions.” She said nothing to him, mentally preparing herself for the task of shooting the dog. No matter what, Debra figured, Phillips would disapprove of her actions; but eventually, he would understand that the apprehension of Carroll was more important.

 

Outside in the hallway again, Debra moved to examine the only doors left. She inhaled and without hesitation, she used her foot to kick the door in; the frame cracked and the splintered wood flew past her, before she aimed her gun into the room. She took a step forward and somewhere in her bones, she knew _this was it_.

 

She exhaled.

 

The hearth was aglow.

 

She stepped further into the room, where her eyes found Joe Carroll and Tim Nelson on the couch; Carroll sipped from his glass of alcohol, while Nelson’s hand slowly moved toward his side.

 

            “FBI!” Debra’s voice cracked slightly, aiming her gun at Carroll. “You’re both under arrest.”

 

Carroll eyed her. “You’re quite uncivilized, Debra. You could have just knocked, as what was your point in ruining my office door?” She controlled her urge to shiver at his intense stare, as she watched him sip from his glass again calmly. “This is my problem with all of you FBI types, honestly. You’ve crossed personal property and instead of knocking first, you enter _quite_ rudely.” Carroll grimaced. “Tell me, Agent Parker; how much of that _technique_ did you learn from our dear friend, Ryan?”

 

Debra continued to point her gun at him; she wasn’t about to take his bait. “If Ryan was here, we both know you wouldn’t be breathing.” Carroll chuckled and stood from the couch, slowly. Debra didn’t back down. “You’re only still breathing now, because I have no desire to find myself on death row.”

 

            “Still bitter about poor Michael’s death, hm?” Carroll taunted. Without warning, Debra’s anger snapped and she quickly had the barrel of her service weapon pressed against his temple. She watched his eyes close briefly, his pink tongue licking at his lips. “I’ll never understand why you continue to avenge his death, Debra. After all, his death brought so many _good_ things for you and Ryan.” Carroll’s eyes opened and flickered to her again. “We can’t you just be grateful for what you’ve got, hm? Without my assistance, you’d still be taking orders from Ryan Hardy. Now,” Carroll smiled. “You’re fucking…” Debra yanked her pistol back and backhanded him with it. Carroll’s smile became red, as he quickly moved his hand to wipe away the bitter liquid. “Was that absolutely necessary, Debra?  We’re adults, not animals. Have some decorum, please.”

 

            “Go to hell,” Debra spat.

 

Carroll chuckled, sipping at his half-empty glass of alcohol again. “As I recall, Agent Parker, _you_ accosted me. How do you believe a judge would rule if you abused your power, especially when I was doing nothing wrong aside from sharing a drink.” He smiled at her again. “And I can assure you, Debra, alcoholism isn’t exactly illegal.” Debra narrowed her eyes.

 

            “You’re a sick bastard, Carroll,” Phillips idly commented, barely masking the disgust in his tone. Carroll continued to grin. “Did Mommy not give you her tits enough as a child?” From the corner of her vision, Debra realized Nelson had gone still. She couldn’t see his expression from where she stood, but she also wasn’t about to tempt fate and remove her weapon from Carroll’s profile. Carroll _was_ the Mastermind and Tim Nelson was just Carroll’s bitch, a puppet on strings, which Carroll effortlessly controlled.

 

            “This must be your _newest_ partner, Debra,” Carroll said, ignoring Phillips. The corners of his lips attempted to twitch into a smirk, causing her to grit her teeth. “Whatever happened to your last partner?” Her finger traced the trigger. “What _was_ his name again?” Carroll’s head moved to glance toward Nelson. “Tyler? Adam? Alex?  Johnathan? Something nontrivial.”

 

            “Agent James Bailey,” Nelson supplied in disinterest. Carroll continued to stare at his right hand man. Debra swallowed painfully. “We abducted him, Agent Parker and his fiancée.” Debra watched Carroll blink. “Agent Bailey killed his fiancé, and is currently seeking _assistance_ for his rapidly deteriorating mental health.” Debra nearly dropped her weapon again, her palms coated in a sheen of sweat. James had been her partner for all of two years, when Carroll had apparently decided _enough was enough_ ; he had orchestrated a mass kidnapping, before he had the three of them buried alive.

 

She had been fine, but her partner…

 

Debra grimaced.

 

            “Ah! _That_ James!” Carroll replied, fully grinning. Debra nearly backhanded him again. “Tell me, how _is_ he doing?” Carroll’s eyes flickered to Phillips. “I’m truly astonished that the bureau continued to allow you partners, Agent. You did, after all, _kill_ Michael Weston…” Decorum damned, Debra yanked her service weapon back again and pistol-whipped him a second time. She watched him rub at his tender jaw, before she heard something growl. “It’s quite alright, puppy.” Carroll’s attention had gravitated back toward Nelson, a smile still on his face. “Debra’s merely angry with herself, as she’s now on par with Ryan Hardy for the _Highest Body Count_ award.” Debra heard Nelson snort. “Although, Agent Parker, I must commend you. You _did_ save Agent Bailey from a rather messy divorce down the line. His fiancée was a ten-cent harlot, after all.”

 

            “Her character doesn’t matter here,” Debra commented coolly. James had hinted _once_ that his marriage was in trouble, but back then, her entire attention had been on catching Carroll and his acolytes. Not on the miniscule failings of a young husband and a father. “Joe Carroll and Tim “Roderick” Nelson, you both are under arrest for the murder of countless women, children and men. Stand up and put your hands behind your back.” Neither male moved, forcing Debra to grit her teeth again. They couldn’t just do this easily, could they? She had _won_. They were finished. “Now.” Debra heard Phillips move behind her.

 

            “I think she said _now_ , Carroll,” Phillips reiterated. “Not tomorrow, but _now_.” Debra turned her head slightly to find Phillips pointing his service weapon at Nelson. Nelson, from Debra’s momentary perspective, seemed rather unimpressed with Phillips’ command. “In my express opinion, _neither_ of you should rot in prison. Parker’s being quite rational here, as I believe someone should just shoot you both now.”

 

Debra baited her breath, as Nelson moved his hands into his lap. “You’ve obviously decided it’s okay to be the judge, jury _and_ executioner. If you’re so above dispensing justice fairly, _Agent_ , please go right ahead and kill me.” Debra turned her head toward Phillips and shook her head, attempting to warn him to stay still. “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

 

            “Well said, my friend.” Joe applauded Nelson, nodding his head in response. “Poe always knew how to describe the romantic ideals of death.”

 

            “Enough of this bullshit,” Phillips interrupted. “You two will have _plenty_ of time to discuss literature on death row.” Debra watched Phillips chance a step forward, when he suddenly gave a loud cry. In horror, Debra watched _something_ pounce atop Phillips and growl.

 

It took her a few moments to realize that the massive _something_ —Roderick’s dog?—was a naked human being. She could define the muscled planes of his back, the tightness in his buttocks and his solid pale (and scarred) thighs as the creature remained atop Phillips. Debra could hear Phillips cry and she moved to point her gun at the human being, almost questioningly. What in the _hell_ was going on here?

 

            “Agents Parker and Phillips,” Nelson finally addressed her, standing from his position on the couch. “I wouldn’t try any sudden or quick movements. My pup _does_ know how to maim a human being, I assure you.” The sudden sinister smile on Nelson’s smile made her step toward Phillips, her gun aimed at the creature’s back.

           

            “Yes, he does,” Carroll answered, quickly finishing his glass of alcohol with a cool smile. Debra felt Carroll’s stare on her. “Agent Parker, it would be _extremely_ ill-advised of you to shoot the puppy. Roderick’s quite protective of his pretty pet.” Debra turned her head slightly to glance at Carroll, who offered her an (almost) friendly smile.

 

Phillips panicked voice, however caught her attention. “Shoot the damned thing already, Debra! It’s not a puppy! It’s a fucking monster!” Debra retrained her service weapon on the human’s back, shaking slightly. She was supposed to protect innocents, not shoot them for being completely brainwashed by Carroll’s sick ideology. However, Phillips _was_ in danger. If she didn’t shoot _it_ , she had no idea how she’d go about explaining the death of her third partner. “What in the hell are you waiting for, Debra? Shoot already!”

 

            “Yes, _Debra_ , what are you waiting for?” Carroll mocked. “Ryan and his _delightful_ niece Maxine wouldn’t have hesitated, you know?”

 

            “She’s cutfrom a completely different cloth, Joe,” Nelson replied. “You can’t hold her up to _the_ Ryan Hardy standards. She’s simply not the same type of person; something she’s proven repeatedly. She didn’t forget about Michael, after all.”

 

            “How could she, my good friend?”

 

Debra paused to glance between Carroll and Nelson. She couldn’t automatically explain it, but something about their conversation forced her to hesitate. Her finger traced the trigger idly and she tried to force herself to pull the trigger, but she just couldn’t.

 

            “Parker! _Debra!_ ” Phillips cried again and Debra glanced at him. “Shoot it! Kill it! I don’t care _what_ you do to it, but come on! I’m your partner!”

 

Her body trembled.

 

She could do this.

 

_For Mike_ , she thought and wrapped her pointer finger around the trigger when Carroll blocked her shot.

 

            “Kill, boy.”

 

Over Carroll’s shoulder, Debra watched as _it_ obeyed the one-word command without hesitation or question. She dropped her gun in response and clapped her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sounds of Phillips screams. She wanted to close her eyes, to crumble to the ground at the bits of blood, sinew and bone spurting into the air.

 

But she couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away from the carnage. She couldn’t look away until after the screams stopped and the silence remained.

 

_Nononononono._

 

The silence was deafening and she couldn’t breathe. She tried to gasp for air. She tried to control the fire burning in her lungs, but she couldn’t. _Andrew. Andrew. No. I should have…I…I…_

 

            “It truly is a pity, Agent Parker,” Carroll said, before he whistled lowly. She couldn’t focus on him; the room seemed to be spinning. “You had the perfect window opportunity to help him and yet, you _refused_. You _hesitated_ and now, poor Agent Andrew Phillips is _dead_. Think you’ll pass the psychological evaluation this time, Debra?”

 

Debra rushed at Carroll, ignoring the possibility of her own death. She just didn’t care anymore. He had killed _Mike_. He had killed _James_. He had killed _Andrew_. Ryan would understand her lapse of control. No jury would convict her for self-defense. “You son of a bitch! You motherfucker!” Her fists beat against Carroll’s chest. “I’ll put a goddamn bullet in your fucking skull myself!”

 

            “Come here, my sweet boy,” Nelson muttered amidst her outburst. Debra pushed Carroll backwards, before she went for her gun again. “She won’t shoot you, my pet. You’re okay, I promise.”  Debra took a step closer to Nelson, trembling.

 

            “You killed my partner too,” Debra managed, aiming her gun at Nelson. She vaguely heard Carroll laugh while Nelson said nothing, holding his bare palm out as if to placate the growling monster before him. “You’ve killed _all_ of my partners. Why?” She didn’t wait for an apology or an explanation, as she turned her service weapon on Nelson’s monster.  

 

            “Before you go and pull the trigger, my _dearest_ Debra,” Carroll’s voice interrupted. She didn’t spare him a glance. “Are you curious as to _who_ the pup is?” She could hear the small taunting lift in his voice and with a lurch, she realized this is _exactly_ what they wanted; they wanted to get under her skin, just so she could make the wrong move and help get the both of them exonerated on a technicality. “No? Debra, Debra, _Debra_.” Carroll almost sounded disappointed. “I thought you would understand _why_ each of your partners never lasted long, as none of them were the proper fit for you.”

 

Debra glanced at him, only to see him shrug and she furrowed her eyebrows.

 

            “Why would you care?”

 

Carroll shrugged again. “Human interest, human curiosity; take your pick.” He smiled at her again and she tensed. What wasn’t he telling her? She stared at him, unblinkingly. “We don’t have too much time left together, Debra. Your FBI friends will be upon us soon and we’ll ultimately be arrested, no questions asked.”

 

She heard Nelson’s pet growl again and Debra stepped backwards. She had no desire to see _who_ the monster was, but at the same time, Carroll’s behavior kept her wondering just _what_ was so important about this pet? Why did he want her to see? Would it explain why he had killed her partners? Why she couldn’t get closure? She took a deep breath. Would it assuage her nightmares? Her overwhelming sense of survivor’s guilt?

 

_No_ , Debra mused.

 

Yet…

 

She needed to know why.

 

Debra said nothing to either male, as she slowly approached the creature. Debra heard its pitiful whines and she frowned.

 

            “Halt, boy,” Nelson commanded and the whining stopped.

 

She circled the creature, taking in the pale skin and kneepads stained red before she slowly bent down and glanced at the gore-covered face.

 

Animalistic baby blue eyes stared back at her, unblinkingly.

 

She swallowed and felt faint.

 

Those eyes.

 

Those _baby blue_ eyes, so piercing and striking that the memory of Mike Weston came to the forefront of her mind and without thinking, his name slipped from her lips in a whisper.

 

            “Mike?”


	4. Joe Carroll | March 13, 2013

**Joe Carroll | March 13, 2013**

Kindling the hearth with Emma near, Joe glanced up from the flickering at the sound of footsteps outside his office doorway. His fingers curled around the poker, the iron prickling his fingers as he kept still and internally fumed that just _anyone_ felt it was appropriate to disturb him. Even in a manor full of _friends_ , his office was his refuge; and after spending years under scrutiny for his supposed crimes, Joe doubted a _minuscule_ amount of privacy was demanding too much from anyone. 

 

He continued to eye the doorway, until Roderick and Louise entered together. Joe said nothing at their identical expressions of pensiveness, knowing that Agent Weston hadn’t given up Claire’s location like Roderick had originally anticipated. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, as the appeal of smashing the fireplace poker into Roderick’s skull was becoming more of a temptation.

 

Perhaps, he hadn’t been clear enough on how well he tolerated repetitive failure either.

 

            “Sorry, Joe,” he heard Roderick quietly say, before Joe unclenched his fingers and opened his eyes. Although Roderick had been _highly_ valuable to his cause (and to the reunion of Joey and himself) thus far, Joe was beginning to question Roderick’s ability to follow and execute simple undertakings.

 

After all, how difficult _was_ it to torture information out of someone?

 

            “You’ll find Claire,” Joe replied evenly, quirking his lips. He turned briefly to replace the fireplace poker, before he glanced toward Louise who seemed to be avoiding his gaze. “And bring her home, of that I’m certain.”

 

Roderick cleared his throat. “Of course. I’m already paces ahead of the FBI, Joe.” Joe said nothing again, eyeing his right-hand in contempt. Roderick _hadn’t_ brought Claire home. He hadn’t even gotten a damned location out of a silly little boy, who had no business being in the FBI. So, what made Roderick think he was _ahead_ of the FBI? “While I wasn’t able to obtain a location from Agent Weston, I _was_ able to obtain the agent.”

 

Joe closed his eyes again. Well, _that_ complicated things.

 

            “You obtained Weston?” Emma asked from behind him, her voice quiet. “I wasn’t acutely aware that _abducting_ Weston again was part of the plan. You idiot.”

 

            “Now, now Emma,” Joe interrupted her with a strained smile. She huffed. “I’m absolutely positive that Roderick has a noble reasoning.” He eyed Roderick. “Isn’t that right?” Joe watched Roderick nod, before the blonde crossed his arms against his chest. He had always known the young man to be stubborn, so this reaction wasn’t entirely _too_ surprising to Joe.

 

            “I wouldn’t expect you to understand my reasoning, Hill,” Roderick snapped. “I, at least, protected seven of our own today. How many lives have you lost, while you’ve been out fucking everything with two legs and a penis?” Joe eyed Emma’s reaction; her faint trembling, the darkening of her pupils and he crossed his arms. He had been aware of Emma’s actions within the farmhouse and while it hadn’t necessarily bothered him, there were _some_ who thought Emma’s actions had jeopardized their entire crusade. It _did_ bother him, however, that two of his most loyal followers were at odds with each other. The visible tension forced him to press his lips together tightly and eye both of them. If Emma and Roderick couldn’t set their differences aside, Joe fretted that the entirety of his effort would turn to ash. He tensed, grinding his teeth at the thought of returning to death row because of total incompetency.

 

_This just won’t do_ , he thought still eyeing them both before he casually sipped at his drink.

 

Roderick must have sensed his crossness, for he immediately uncrossed his arms and stepped backwards from Emma. Emma turned, twisting her head toward the hearth and Joe grimaced. He’d discuss it with Emma later. “Joe,” Roderick finally said, forcing the attention back on him. Joe stared unblinkingly. “I owe you; I may not have brought Claire back to you, but Weston does have information we could utilize.”

 

            “And _how_ exactly do you plan on gaining that information?”

 

            “By breaking him, of course.”

 

Joe stared at his protégé, his smile fading. “Emma, Louise. I’d like to speak with Roderick in private, please.” From behind him, he heard Emma sputter and Joe cleared his throat. “I don’t believe I requested a secondary audience, either.” Joe felt Emma push past him, causing him to grimace at her insubordination. He was _not_ about to be treated like a fool or humiliated, especially not by someone, who claimed to be completely loyal to him like Emma had.

 

His lips twitched, as he watched Emma storm from the room. Disobedience would earn her no favors and he had plans to readjust her attitude; but Emma would have to wait, until after he had discussed Roderick’s latest divergence from their plan. Joe heard Louise mutter something to Roderick, who nodded, before she also took her leave.

 

Alone at last, Joe turned his back on Roderick and sat his tumbler of alcohol aside. “Would you care for a drink?”

 

            “No, thank you.”

 

Joe nodded, before he turned to reface Roderick after a moment of silence. Roderick said nothing, his arms crossed against his chest and Joe shook his head. “I can’t say I’m not surprised. Weston _is_ quite the catch, isn’t he?”

 

Roderick narrowed his eyes. “Don’t. You want Claire, well here’s your opening.” Joe snorted. He didn’t doubt Roderick’s _noble_ intentions, but he did doubt the innocence behind the kidnapping. Instead of leaving the blonde for death, a _fitting_ punishment for Ryan Hardy and company (in Joe’s mind, anyway), Roderick had taken it upon himself to bring the forlorn FBI agent home like a goddamn lost puppy. It infuriated Joe to no end; when had the breaking of Agent Michael Weston become their newest endeavor? The boy wasn’t going to bring them anything useful, aside from difficulty in the form of Ryan Hardy. “To the world, Joe, Weston is _dead_.”

 

            “You didn’t answer my original question.”

 

            “We can break him.” Much to Joe’s exasperation, Roderick ignored his question again. “He’d make an excellent asset.” Joe continued to glance at Roderick, who avoided his gaze. “Without Weston, I doubt the wonder team will continue to function. Hardy will be beyond himself in _grief_ ; maybe, he’ll even drink himself to death.” The titter from Roderick, forced Joe to grab at the fireplace poker and press the sharp tip against Roderick’s carotid artery in anger. Ryan wasn’t going to drink himself to death, not in _his_ story anyway.

 

No, Ryan was going to die at _his_ hand; and it was beyond insulting for Roderick to insinuate anything else, really.

 

He watched Roderick’s Adam’s apple bob nervously. “You may have forgotten who _exactly_ is in charge here; but I have not.” Joe smiled. “Yes or no, Roderick. Weston’s _quite_ the catch, isn’t he?”

 

            “I owe...”

 

            “Yes _or_ no.”

 

Roderick met Joe’s stare, evenly. “Yes.”

 

Joe dropped the fire poker at Roderick’s answer, the iron clanking against the wooden floor, before he rubbed his hands together in pure delight. “Answering truthfully wasn’t so hard, now was it?”   

 

            “You’re a bastard,” Roderick said, spitting and Joe chuckled.

 

            “Nothing I haven’t heard before, alas,” Joe replied, stepping away from Roderick to sit down on the couch. Waving his hand, he beckoned Roderick to join him. “If I had wanted to kill you for your careless _deviation_ in our plan, Roderick; I would have already, rest assured.” He flashed his smile. If he had felt inclined to having _more_ blood on his hands, he would have killed Roderick mere _seconds_ after the second admission of abducting Weston. But he hadn’t. _Thank goodness for self-restraint_ , he thought, still smiling. Blood was such a problematic solution to remove from clothing _and_ rugs; and he seriously didn’t want to bleach the place, as he was becoming so fond of his little corner office too. “So come and join me, please.”

 

 Roderick did so, cautiously.

 

            “Relax! We’re going to discuss your plans for Michael, Roderick. You said he was dead?”

 

Still perched on the edge of the couch, Roderick slowly nodded. “To everyone but us, yes.”

 

            “I suppose you used your contact at the coroner’s office?”

 

            “I did,” Roderick agreed. “But it won’t come back to us.”

 

            “It had better not, for your sake.” Without waiting for a response, Joe placed his hand on Roderick’s shoulder. Roderick tensed briefly and Joe lowered his voice, apprehensive. “What happened at the shipyard, Tim? This behavior is dissimilar to the Roderick I know.”

 

He heard Roderick exhale. “He saw my face, Joe. He identified me as _Roderick_ , and it was only a matter of time before the FBI came into Havenport.” Roderick shrugged, frowning. “I’ve built several contingencies around my identity being blown, but when he said _my_ name…I just…I snapped.” Roderick’s frown deepened. “I’m so sorry…”

 

On some level, Joe understood Roderick’s struggle. He truly did and it reminded him of the young Tim Nelson, who had needed his guiding all of those years ago. _Am I getting soft_? Joe questioned himself, squeezing Roderick’s shoulder in a comforting motion. Years ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated on slicing _anyone’s_ throat for the slight deviation of an excellent plan; yet, now, here he was comforting the man who had unknowingly added a second tier of difficulty in reuniting the Carroll-Matthews family again.

 

Then again, he supposed, even the _best_ of plans could fodder.

 

            “He knows where Claire is, Joe,” Roderick continued, after a moment of silence. “And I’ll get the answer out of him, even if it kills me.”

 

            “And afterwards?” Joe asked, releasing Roderick’s shoulder without a smile.   

 

            “I’ll kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL is a bitch and I apologize for the length of time it took me to update this story, but I believe updates should start becoming more regular now. Yay for a set schedule/plans!


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